


Loyalty Binds

by taichara



Series: Blood and Fire [1]
Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:42:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of Sounion Cape and the Capricorn Saint's duties there, a little less than a year before the Holy War is due to begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty Binds

On a quiet, storm-dark morning – two mornings, in fact, since he last came this way – a well-cloaked figure picked his way carefully along the broken cliffs of Sanctuary's great cape in silent defiance of the stormy skies above, the angry waves below. Of all the tasks set to him by his lord ad master, this was surely one of the most painful to endure; and yet who else was there to do such a thing at all?

_Rather, to do such a thing without twisting him to some foul purpose.  
Poor, lost soul._

Even without the shining golden gleam of his Cloth to mark him, there would be no mistaking the smooth, controlled movements of the Capricorn Saint. And surely there were many in Sanctuary who would find great use in knowing about this task, if only they dared to follow him down to the broken, blasted cape –

A flicker of movement. He lifts his head, the sharp lavender ice of his eyes pinned, alert.

_There._

One graceful hand sweeps out of the dark enfolding velvet, impossibly fast; a smooth straight arc upward, as if throwing a blade. There is a single harsh cry, and a crow plummets to the rough ground. He smiles grimly, and continues on. 

Someday, Jamian may learn; but, it seems, it will not be today.

\- * -

His destination is a difficult one to reach, suspended between the rough grasses of the cliff-top and the shattered wave-beaten stones below. Only every few days are the tides low enough to expose the pathway and allow him to reach the door.

Resigned, he checks the small bundles hidden under the cloak and winds his way towards the heavy, rust-caked portal wedged immovably into the stone. Few other than a Saint of the Temples could wrench that ancient door from its bed, a fact that the Holy Father counted on with some wicked amusement. 

Certainly, there was no fear to it being dislodged from within.

Shura stared at the door for a long, uncomfortable moment, hard-pressed to grasp the worn rings and pull it free. It was the same soul-chilling thought, every time; the spectre of what may lie on the other side this visit. A gibbering wreck, or a long-dead corpse?

Or something else, something that he hadn't thought of yet ...?

Grimly the thoughts were pushed away once again, and the portal pulled out of its granite frame. Quick as light Shura was on the other side, eyes trying to adjust to the strange soft glow of the cavern as the door thudded back into its rocky cradle.

It takes a few moments – time he spends listening carefully to each tiny sound – but his eyes do adjust. Against all logic there is light in this cool place, strangely dry; not for the first time, he wonders what might lie behind the smooth convex panels of living crystal set high in the grotto's walls.

Reflexively checking the door to be certain it has sealed itself properly, Shura's eyes fall on tiny shallow scratchings in the rusted edges, the smooth stone frame. He winces and looks away, quickly; a damning memory, that.

_I am so thankful – dearest Goddess – that he gave up ..._

Shaking his head slightly, then pushing back the hood of his cloak, he began to make his way towards the far reaches of the grotto. Two more chambers after this, no more than twenty paces across. Odds were that he would be in the furthest, unless ...

No, better not to think about ‘unless’.

Shura sighs, and steels himself.

"Kanon?"

No response; but he's not terribly surprised. Shura waits for the echoes of his voice to fade, than stills himself to listen again. Trickle of water, faint crash of wave, a few pebbles sliding ... there. 

A soft rhythmic whisper. Kanon's breath. 

Still alive, then.

_Should I be pleased, I wonder?  
Or add it to my regrets, instead._

Almost instantly guilt stabs at him, but Shura does his best to shrug it away. So much would be easier, kinder, if some morning he should come to the grotto and find Kanon long gone; but it does not bear long thought, that, despite the cold moment of internal politicking.  
His eyes burn, briefly. Too cruel, that thought. He should know better.

_There's nothing that I can do, but what I'm doing now ..._

Still no answer as he calls out again, and with another sigh Shura moves further into the cluster of chambers. Passing into the second, he sees the small collection of well-worn books, the remnants of previously-delivered 'parcels' on the rough stone ledges, and sets the newest addition down on the nearest available space. Enough there to feed the 'prince' for some few days, until Shura can return again.

_He eats so little in any case._

A few other things, as well, that Shura has smuggled down to the cape; two more books, clothing ... winter is coming in quickly this year. He may not be able to do much, but by the Goddess he would try. This had been going on for so long ... How had Grey managed it?

_He didn't. Not after sending him down here; and that how I earned my place in name as well as in deed, isn't it. Sleep well, master._

The Holy Father had been pleased to praise Shura for that; even after all these years, he was strong and unbreakable where his teacher had not been. A bitter truth, but truth nonetheless.

Ah, there, curled against the curved water-worn wall. On the mass of faded woolen fabric, the nest-like pallet, a cascade of golden white.

"Kanon?"

Still no answer.

Shura drew a deeper breath, and slowly edged closer to the the quiet mass of hair and pale linen. Half-lidded violet eyes gazed back at him – or, rather, clear past him; there was not a flicker of movement, of recognition, in the fine pale features. 

_I thought as much._

Shura's expression twisted for a moment, chilled and unhappy.

_How long have you been 'away' this time?_

Kneeling next to the unmoving form, he gathered the too-thin bundle closer to himself and away from the cold stone of the wall, running his fingers through the limp ringlets until he caught on a snarl. It never got any easier, whether seeing the pale face fearful or disturbingly blank, as how; or mirrored on the heights of Sanctuary itself, twisted with grief and self-inflicted agony.

Shura was not terribly surprised that Kanon would retreat like this; it held off even deeper madness, as like as not.

"Kanon ..."

Not so much as a twitch from the wasted blonde whose head rested against Shura's shoulder. Well, there was no help for it then.

_~Kanon.~_

A start of fright, and the limp bundle jerked into struggling life; Shura let him go and waited patiently as Kanon retreated to the makeshift bed, eyes wide and dilated with fear, breath rasping and ragged. A few tense moments pass, and then the blonde relaxes and slumps, giving Shura a weary, half-grateful glance from under tangled bangs.

"... Capricorn Saint."

It is a respectful acknowledgement of Shura's rank, which only adds to the sting. He doesn't want to hear it, not from Kanon.

_He should be my senior in the Twelve Houses ..._

Stubbornly, Shura – secretly – clung to the slim hope that Kanon might find his power somehow. No cosmo, true, no power welling up within him; but he was sensitive, sensitive enough that a saint's mind-touch would bring him instantly back to sense. Surely that meant something?

"Does he know you're here?"

The same question, every time. Concern mixed with fear, anxiety – but not anger. That died long ago, if it was ever there at all; Kanon has long forgotten how he found himself in the cape.

"He does. But not the other one, I don't think. He could care less.  
"Kanon, I've brought a few things for you ..."

Shura starts through the list, and occasionally must pause to catch his captive audience's attention again, as Kanon tilts his head slightly to listen to the faint pounding of the waves, or begins to slowly focus himself inward once again. But when he is focused on the here and now – and he seems more so as the minutes tick by – Kanon seems oddly surprised, and grateful. And that also pains Shura.

As Kanon murmurs thanks and pulls listlessly at a tangled ringlet, Shura winces inwardly at the soft deep voice, now faded to almost nothing. Another wince is spared for the waiflike creature he's watching; so different from his brother and yet still so obviously the same, though Kanon is chalk-pale and too thin, too muscle-wasted to be compared with his fever-vibrant twin.

In a strange way, Shura muses, it makes him seem half his years. Perhaps it would be different if he were on his feet; but Kanon will not do so in Shura's presence, unless forced. The lesson is still well-learned, if buried, and he would be taller than the Saint of the Sea-Goat if he stood. And this, it seems, would be disrespectful.

_What else has gotten confused in your mind, Kanon?  
How much longer can you last?_

Kanon spends a few moments studying a lock of his hair, occasionally glancing at Shura as if wondering why he is still present; and the saint comes to a quick decision. When was the last time he "bothered" ...?

"Kanon, shall I brush it for you?"

Sapphire eyes blink slowly; this is an unexpected question, to be certain. Shura holds out a hand reassuringly as he carefully kneels next to the now-shivering blonde.

"I'll be careful, I promise."

With hardly a moment of further hesitation, Kanon takes the offered hand and brings it to his face, almost nuzzling Shura's fingers. Heart cringing, Shura disentangles himself long enough to find the brush and comb tucked away in one of the chamber's crevasses and settles himself down to work out the tangles in the mass of pale hair. 

Kanon relaxes as the brush is gently worked through his disheveled mane, clearly starved still for any amount of contact, however brief. His eyes slide half-closed again, but the whispering breaths remain even; not entranced, then, merely quiet.

As the still-silky locks begin to untangle, Shura wonders whimsically how long Kanon's hair is. He's shortened it himself a few times – Kanon, allowed anything sharp enough to cut? not likely – but still ... 

An amusing thought, but irrelevant and ultimately not much more than a fleeting distraction. Once again Shura is struck by the inevitability of this enforced, twinned captivity; the one enslaved by weakness and cold stone, the other by strength and self-imposed chains. Surely there was still some link, some soul-forged bond between the two; how else could Saga not have ordered his brother's death – for whatever reason – or Kanon finally succumb to some ravaging of his frail form?

There was no way out, now, and certainly not for the blonde slowly sinking back against the Sea-Goat. Even if Shura were to free him, the Holy Father would destroy him – and Shura as well, for such blatant defiance. That would end Saga's life as surely as any dagger in the throat ... and then there would be only the Holy Father left.

Not a pleasant prospect.

-*-

Long before Shura has finished his ministrations or his musings, Kanon has drifted to sleep in truth. Too much excitement, perhaps, or simply because it is his way, his life.

Shura smoothes out the pale ringlets and settles his poor captive onto the nest of coverlets, brushing his fingers against the sharp hollow cheek and noting for the first time the faintest traces of possible fever.

_And it begins again._

Opening the heavy clasp of his cloak, Shura shrugs out of the heavy fabric and, pulling the great golden pins free, envelops Kanon in the soft dark velvet. The blonde nuzzles into the cloak, still aware of the world for the moment.

"Sleep for now, Kanon. I'll be back again."

No answer but the soft breath-whisper. 

Shura glances at the dim light, the strong walls traced with years of meandering design left by captive hands, the tiny slit admitting the sea-breeze and weak shaft of sunlight, the archway to the chamber beyond.

_Such a tiny world to be confined in for so long.  
Do you remember anything else, in your dreamlike life?_

It was not a question Shura could answer, or could be comfortable with. 

With a final brush of his fingers through the moon-golden locks, he turns to make his way back towards the stormy sunlight and the false sense of freedom.

Captives, all of them, they were; but it would, someday, change.

It _would_ change.


End file.
